A Beautiful Mess
by FiwiKruit
Summary: AU   Sirius never died :  Therefore neither did Remus or Tonks. Sirius and Hermione watch the stars together, which - of course - leads to a heartfelt discussion about perfection. Non epilogue compliant, SBHG


**Disclaimer ~ None of these characters are mine, except the blonde at the beginning :) **

**This is unbeta'd, so please excuse any mistakes. My first work on this website - my first work canonxcanon. Tell me what you think? **

"_Can you see the brightest star, Sirius? That's you, my little scorcher. Because that's what you'll be, isn't it? A scorcher; so bright you'll light up everyone's lives and they'll never forget you. You're too perfect to be forgotten, precious. Too perfect to be mine."_

"What are you thinking, Sirius?" the Black boy groaned, closing his eyes as the voice of yet another simpering woman crept into his ears. He had no idea why she'd been invited – he certainly didn't remember her fighting. _In fact_, he decided, his eyes scanning down her scantily clad body; _I can't see her fighting at all. For anything. Except maybe the newest designer robes_.

"Nothing, pet, just enjoying the music," he replied, his voice as smooth as ever. He didn't (couldn't) look her in the eye, but he was far too much of a gentleman to look anywhere below her neck, so his fixed his gaze on her glistening, pink lips.

"Music isn't for enjoying, it's for dancing to!" Wrong, but he felt no desire to correct her. Instead he took her hand and led her onto the dance floor, wondering (not for the first time) why he got stuck with the mindless blondes while every other man in the room had a sensible, sane woman on their arms.

_Because, you idiot, you're far too old for the one girl you actually _want_ to dance with._

His eyes scanned across the room and landed on her figure, standing casually in the corner, laughing at some joke somebody had said. She wasn't dancing – but then, nobody was. Well, nobody other than the couples who were so clearly in love they couldn't stop themselves from dancing. And even then, the floor was mostly empty.

He briefly considered backing out of the dance, but it was too late by then. They were in the centre of the dance floor and a new song had just started and her hands were sliding into position and he had to. _Had_ to. That was nothing new.

She didn't feel right pressed against his body like that, but he held her anyway, leading the dance with a flawless grace that only came with years of being scrutinised at pureblood balls. This whole situation was nothing new. It was like a time-old cliché that he couldn't escape from. And he resigned himself to it, over and over again, twirling another woman he couldn't meet the gaze of over a smooth, expensive floor as though they were the most intimate of lovers. There was comfort to be found, he knew, in the repetitive motions of the ritual; in the knowledge that he wouldn't be rejected on the grounds of something simple and irrelevant like his _age_-

But no, he'd promised himself that he wouldn't let his mind follow that road tonight, and this was the second time. While there was nothing wrong with pretending to be attracted to a young woman for a night (so he told himself), deluding himself into believing that he had any chance with the bewitching witch who was dancing with Remus and twisting his stomach into knots and smiling that soft, dazzling smile – that would be suicide. And he had no desire to lose what was left of his heart because he couldn't control his damn hormones around one girl.

Sighing, he ran a lightly tanned hand through his hair. Another song finished and the couples broke apart, some laughing and others smiling, and the few left over walking away without a backward glance. And in that moment he wanted nothing more than to be one of those people – the ones who could just leave those few moments behind and move on to the rest of their lives. The thought stung his chest and make his heart ache with a strange sort of guilt, because it was almost like he was blaming her for his idiotic feelings and there was no way it was her fault.

It had started with a dance. A dance that she had initiated – so, he supposed, it wasn't so bad to blame her. It had begun as a simple, platonic affair, and he span her around the transformed living room of the Burrow while whispering inappropriate jokes about some of the older wizards in the room. She'd thrown her head back and laughed; it was then that he realised how beautiful she'd become. The war had taken its toll (of course it had; everyone had been affected and no one had stayed the same) but the years since had softened its effects. Her smile was the same again – taking him back to chess games and conversations via floo powder during her fourth year. She'd grown into her figure though, and her hair was tamer and the looks she shot at her friends were filled with a new, adult humour and maturity. The years had been kind to Hermione Granger.

But when the dance ended, the spell was broken (for her, never for him) and she smiled one last time, patted his arm lightly and waltzed off with the remaining Weasley Twin. It wasn't fair, he reasoned, that she could leave their dance behind like it was _nothing_, like it hadn't mattered in the slightest, while he was left behind watching as she left.

He felt a sudden empathy for all the girls he'd done a similar thing to over the years.

And now, months later, he couldn't bear to watch her dance because it hurt so damn bad and even after all these years he was a coward. So instead he lost himself in dances with women who meant nothing to him, and found solace in the way he could walk away from them, like she'd walked away from him all that time ago.

He left early. It was hardly a surprise to himself, but to his friends and comrades it was an unthinkable occurrence. Sirius Black was always the life of the party. He didn't leave early – never had and never would. So it wasn't that much of a shock when Remus announced that he and Tonks were going back to Grimmauld Place to check up on him. Hermione offered to go with them ("It's getting late, and I have to be in early tomorrow morning – a good night's sleep would do me good, anyway") and she missed the worried looks exchanged between the Lupins. It hadn't exactly escaped their notice that their friend had been pining over a certain muggle-born witch recently.

"Perhaps," Remus murmured to his wife, placing a hand on her back, "It's for the best. He might get up the courage to talk to her."

Tonks nodded her agreement silently, and the three of them disapparated with a sharp pop.

Sirius was sitting, curled up, on one of the large window seats in the library when his best friend and companions arrived. Remus had directed them to the book-filled room on purpose; he alone knew that it was where Sirius went when he needed to think. And he saw the look of panic that flashed across the Black's face when he noticed the younger of the two women.

"What are you doing back so early?" The question hung in the air for a moment; they all knew the answer.

"That's exactly when we came to ask you, cousin dearest," Tonks replied, a smile playing around her plump lips.

Sirius scoffed lightly and turned away again, his eyes fixed on the stars high above them. Behind him came a scuffling noise, and the library door opened and closed loudly. He exhaled softly and rolled his tense shoulders, lifting one hand to push his hair ff his face.

He froze mid-movement, however, when a slight figure dropped down onto the window seat opposite him. Hermione smiled shyly at him, crossing her legs in front of her and resting her hands in her lap.

"What are you thinking, Sirius?" He didn't reply, not at first, but smiled slightly as he realised he'd already been asked that question that night. He hadn't wanted to reply the first time either, but for entirely different reasons. Then, he hadn't wanted to offend the young lady who asked. And now… Now he was too afraid of sounding like an idiot, or worse; rejection.

"Just looking at the stars," His answer came late, but at least it came. Hermione smiled again.

"That one's Sirius, isn't it?" she murmured, her eyes fixing on the same star he was watching, "Alpha Canis Majoris. The brightest star in the sky." He glanced over at her, and she met his gaze steadily.

"Yeah, Sirius. The scorcher." He ran his hand through his hair and unconsciously mimicked her pose.

"You were named after the star, right?" She was probing him, he knew, trying to make him talk. Merlin only knew why.

"Mhmm. It's a tradition in the Black household. We were all named after stars; stars or constellations. My father was Orion, the hunter, and my mother was named after 256 Walpurga, an asteroid belt." He was sure she already knew this, but he told her anyway. It needed to be said.

"And Regulus?"

"Regulus was my mother's Little King, the brightest star in Leo," he replied softly, clenching his hands to stop himself from pointing the stars out to her, like her used to with his baby brother.

"Can you show me?" Merlin, it was like she could read minds. "The stars, I mean."

He hesitated, but nodded, and she slid closer to him. He took her hand and closed all the fingers but one, leaving it as a pointer. He slid off the ledge and moved to stand behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. He hardly had to lean down thanks to the height of the ledge.

"There," he breathed, closing his own fingers around hers and dragging her hand until her finger was pointing directly at his star.

She smiled, he could feel her cheek lifting against his.

"Wow," she whispered, a teasing tone to her voice, "I never knew you were so beautiful." The words made his heart clench uncomfortably, but he brushed it off.

"And that one is Regulus, my darling brother." They were speaking so lowly, any sarcasm in his words was lost.

"Little King," she murmured, her breath fogging the window slightly, "And you're the scorcher. Was your mother a seer?" They both laughed, but the spell wasn't broken.

"Perhaps. She used to tell me she'd named me Sirius because she knew I'd do amazing things someday. Because I was going to be fantastic – burning through people's lives like a sun."

"She was right." She said it like it was a fact, and he closed his eyes as tears pricked at them.

"Not in the way she wanted." Again, his words hung in the air like lead, surrounding them in a haze of unsaid fears and sorrows and regrets.

"No," Hermione was treading carefully; the man was close to breaking, she could see that much, "But in the way we all wanted. And you did burn through our lives,"

"But never through hers. Not after I turned eleven and ruined it all."

"She had you for all the years before that."

"It wasn't enough for her. You never saw her face, 'Mione. It wasn't disappointment, it was worse than that. It was like I'd abandoned her – betrayed her. She never raised a hand to me; all the beatings and insults and punishments were my father's. She'd just watch with this sad look on her face."

"But it always hurt more than the physical pain?" She turned to face him, her eyes studying her profile, "I know, Sirius. It wasn't – I'd never even pretend I had it as bad as you did, but when I brought my parents back, after I'd obliviated them, my mum wouldn't even look at me. I felt so bad for doing it, like I'd done something horrific, but it was always for the best."

"I'm sorry," he replied, because there was nothing else he could say.

"Wasn't your fault." She smiled again, and he turned to face her too.

"I know. I'm still sorry," he wasn't apologising to her, not fully, and they both knew it.

The library filled with silence again and he realised she was crying. Softly, just tears, no sobs – but crying nonetheless, and he hated it. He reached out and brushed a hand across her cheek, wiping the droplets away roughly.

"She still loved you, no matter what she said. She had to," Her voice was fierce, even through the tears, and Sirius smiled.

"I know, pet. She used to tell me I was perfect. Her perfect little boy. She only said it once after I left for Hogwarts, but at the time it sounded more like an insult, the final blow. I know she meant it, now, but I didn't then. It hurt that she'd use it against me like that,"

"You are perfect, Sirius. You're the perfect Gryffindor – brave and loyal and unafraid." He chuckled at her words and shook his head.

"I'm not unafraid, love, I'm terrified of everything. Of losing the people I love; of hurting the ones I care about; of being forgotten – she used to tell me I was too perfect to be forgotten, too. Maybe that's where it stemmed from. Despite everything, I still want her to be right about me."

"She _was_ right," Hermione argued, "And you'll never be forgotten. You're Sirius Black – how could we forget you? You're- Well… You're too… _Perfect_ to be forgotten," she echoed his mother's words, and her hands clasped his and she smiled so brightly it made his heart ache.

"Not perfect enough for you," he stated softly – sadly – and smiled ashamedly at her. Her eyes widened, and he squeezed on her fingers lightly, then slid out of her grip, rising to his full height.

"You never said anything." She sounded almost accusatory, but her eyes were still wide and her hands hadn't moved.

"I never wanted to. Why would I want to lose someone else? It made no sense to feel this way, and there was no point in chasing after a car I'd never catch."

"So… why now?" An amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'd told you everything else. It didn't feel right to keep one last thing from you."

He paused, opening his mouth as if to add something, then smiled sorrowfully and turned, starting towards the door.

"And now you're just going to run away? Turn your back on your feelings all over again?" He stopped walking and stiffened, then turned slowly to confront her. She was smiling, though, not trying to start a fight.

She slid off the bench and walked over to him, cocking her head to one side and looking up at him.

"I'm not going to let that happen, Sirius Black. I'm not going to let you lose this too."

His eyes filled with questions, and his heart was racing in his chest, but it didn't matter because her hands were sliding up his chest and around his neck, and she was leaning up and pulling him down and her breath was so _sweet_ and then their lips were pressed together in a soft, chaste kiss.

Neither of them moved. They stayed still, gazing into each other's eyes, until hers fluttered shut. Then she started to move her mouth, just lightly, and his arms slid around her waist and pulled her close as his eyes closed too.

It was only a brief kiss, but it said so much – more than they could ever hope to express with their fumbling, awkward words. When they parted, he pulled her even closer and buried his head into her hair as her hands slid back down until they were resting on his chest between them.

And as the rest of their friends arrived home and music started playing, all he could think was how perfectly she fit into him as the two of them danced slowly through the library together.


End file.
